


Draw Blood

by malachitegrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Minor Character Death, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malachitegrey/pseuds/malachitegrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts, werewolves, London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ November 2011.

He sniffed the lacquered folds. “Mmm...’Great riches are in your future.’”

“You haven’t predicted a single one accurately since we started coming here.” John’s arm darted across the table and snatched the cookie from under Sherlock’s nose. “This one’s mine.” He cracked it open and stuffed half in his mouth, chewing with a carnivorous open-mouthed grin designed to horrify his dining companion. (Judging by the look on Sherlock’s face, the mission was successful.) John pulled the skittery tab sticking out of the other half of the cookie and glanced down at it, and his face went slack.

“What does it say?”

John looked up, past Sherlock’s shoulder into the kitchen. It wasn’t unusual for the activity in the restaurant to be low so late at night, but coupled with the fortune, the silence in the kitchen was chilling.

“John?”

“Run.” He dropped the fortune on the table and stood up as if in a trance, still staring at the kitchen. “It says ‘Run.’” John took two steps toward the kitchen; Sherlock was turning the fortune over in the greenish light, studying it.

The door banged open.

**

They ought not to have been surprised that their favorite Chinese restaurant had been infested by werewolves. It was a common occurrence these days, and werewolves were known to have a fondness for chow mein. Mycroft had hinted that he had people working on it.

They hadn’t worked fast enough for Sherlock and John.

**

The problem was that only one of them had died. If they had both been turned, or both become enspectred, they could’ve lived with that. Well, metaphorically, in the latter situation. But no, Sherlock had to go and bleed out while John was still fighting. Ornery bastard. John had tried to get him to add more iron to his diet.

John would get plenty of iron now.

**

And he shouldn’t have gone back to 221 before he’d learned to control himself.

He apologized profusely to the mutilated body as the blood crept out the door and down the steps. Their flat would be especially untidy now. Or maybe Sherlock’s absence would balance out Mrs. Hudson’s?

God, things were really fucked up.

**

He found Sherlock in the pool, of all places, months after he thought he’d come to terms with the abyss where his soul used to live. Actually physically in the pool. What?

“I thought you couldn’t swim,” he called out across the water in between bites of lung. Play it cool, Watson. Breathe. Swallow.

The curls were as perfect as ever as his head popped above the silent surface. “Being noncorporeal has several distinct advantages, John.” Well, perfect and transparent. Both the curls and the rest of him. Well, the skin looked about the same. Except he could see the water through Sherlock’s neck. Shit, he was still bloody perfect.

“Why are you in the pool?”

“Because I have not been able to leave it. I should think that was obvious.”

“What? No, it’s not obvious. What are you talking about?”

He sighed dramatically. “Because, John, if I had been able to leave the pool, I would have come to find you.”

John grinned, blood dripping from the corner of his lip. “I’ve missed you, you great prat.”

**

Sherlock’s chin hovered at the lip of the pool. “He couldn’t stay away. He kept coming back here.”

“Yeah, well, I’d’ve found him whether he came here or somewhere new.” John fished through the pockets of the shredded Westwood. Waste not, he always said. Well, always meaning since he’d found himself fighting to survive in this paranormal postapocalyptic catastrophe of a world. “I’m a bloody fantastic tracker now.”

“You always were.” Somehow his eyes had been more ghostly in life; now they blazed, the reflected light off the water visible through them. Sherlock nodded at the card John had pulled out of the suit. “You should call him—your clothes need tailoring now that your muscle distribution has changed. And you no longer need my bank card.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have done that. Thanks, though.”

“Why did he keep coming back? He was smarter than that.”

Deducing was probably easier as a ghost, John mused. Nothing physical to distract him anymore. Almost the opposite of his life now—every breath was a war against his body’s burning. “Places are important, Sherlock. This place made him what he was.”

“He made himself what he was. The pool was incidental.”

John crouched at the edge of the pool, teaching himself how to look into Sherlock’s eyes without looking through them. “Why do you think you’re here though? And why can’t you leave? This place was important to you, to your life. Something important happened to you here.”

“No, you’re important to me, not this place,” he spat, pacing in the pool as if he was treading the tired boards of their living room, as if he still had cells that touched the world. He glanced up at John. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you’ve known.”

John blinked and realized he did. He had. Since here. And he knew. “Let’s go home, Sherlock.” He reached into the water, his hand passing through Sherlock’s chest, through the place where he once might have had (did have) (had almost lost) a heart.

Sherlock climbed out of the pool and they walked out of hell into a hell they could now live with. Well, metaphorically.

John felt the rain on his head and the moon in his blood. Sherlock felt neither. They were perfect.

He howled.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics of "Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon:
> 
> I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand  
> Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain  
> He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's  
> Going to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein  
> Werewolves of London
> 
> If you hear him howling around your kitchen door  
> Better not let him in  
> Little old lady got mutilated late last night  
> Werewolves of London again  
> Werewolves of London
> 
> He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent  
> Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair  
> Better stay away from him  
> He'll rip your lungs out, Jim  
> I'd like to meet his tailor  
> Werewolves of London
> 
> Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen  
> Doing the werewolves of London  
> I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen  
> Doing the werewolves of London  
> I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's  
> His hair was perfect  
> Werewolves of London  
> Draw blood


End file.
